the weight of shadows
by Kira
Summary: The brothers sit silent, half a galaxy away from each other, never feeling more apart yet closer than they have in years.


**title**: the weight of shadows

**rating**: PG

**genre**: gen

**summary**:_ The brothers sit silent, half a galaxy away from each other, never feeling more apart yet closer than they have in years. _

**author's note**: I felt Sam was unfairly cut from the film, and deserved a bit of screen time in the story. Originally was a writing exercise to get me flowing in this fandom for another story, but grew into its own. Thanks to jessicalynn8383 for the beta (and companionship on my second viewing of the movie).

--

His time at the Academy seems a million years ago, even farther away than his time spent breaking speed limits in rural Iowa, when he never thought he'd go farther than Des Moines in his life.

No, this reality seems _odd_, different, and like a dream, it's fuzzy on the edges, colored with innocence; he never would have thought he had any left, but discovers he did before watching people _die_ right in front of him, _because_ of him.

It weighs on him as he flops down on the bed in his dorm room -- he winces, forgetting for a moment that modern medicine's _good_, but not that good. Repairs in cracked ribs, bruised eye socket, raw knuckles, and that's just the big stuff. They're all still tender and red and promising to knit themselves back together. What he needs, according to Bones, is rest. He'll reserve time for subdermal regeneration tomorrow. At the earliest.

Kirk smirks at the memory of Bone's angry face. He's just so _amusing_ when he's pissed off.

The lights are still off, the room eerily quiet -- his roommate, a kid from Oregon four years younger than him -- was on one of the ships destroyed by Nero in Vulcan space, obliterated in an instant, yet he still seems to linger in the double dorm room. Eighty percent of his class, gone, just like that.

Posters still hang on the walls, there are clothes on the floor around the bed. A discarded data pad on the desk next to textbooks. All vestiges of a life neither of the room's occupants will return to, one of tests and syllabi and late-night study sessions (that Kirk walked in on, not participated in).

He expected to advance quickly, but recognizes the naiveté in such a bold proclamation. At what cost, he should have thought, but James Kirk's never been one for consequences. Jump first, figure if you can make it later (put to the test literally on the _Naurada_). Taunt, punch, deal with the group of guys when they advance.

Now, he thinks he might, well, _think_. From time to time.

Jim's in the room five minutes before the computer chimes, that known two-tone chirp that signifies an incoming message. Groaning, he sits up, rubbing his forehead (lingering concussion, capillaries repaired, but the headache, he knows from experience, remains) and calls out for dim lighting. There's a pad on the nightstand; he grabs it and answers the call.

"Damnit, Jimmy, I've been trying to reach you for _days_!"

Kirk smiles. "Hello, _Sammy_. In case you haven't heard, I've been busy saving the planet."

George Samuel Kirk, stationed who the hell knew where, gets that serious glare in his eyes reserved for the fool-hearted antics of his little brother. "Oh, I've heard. 'The courageous and brave James T. Kirk,'" he quotes. "Had to make sure they were talking about you, cause, I've got to admit, it was hard to believe at first."

"Gee, thanks," Kirk deadpans. "Your faith in me is astounding."

"Don't get me wrong," Sam continues, his own smirk a twin of Kirk's. "I always knew you'd be famous. Just not for saving the _planet_. Have you talked to Mom yet?"

It's the first time he's thought of his mother, but not the first of his Dad; dying in uniform had more of an impact on Kirk than serving in one for a lifetime. He closes his eyes and takes a breath -- either she'll be proud of her son for his efforts, or angry at him for what she calls his disregard for self-preservation.

"Want to help a brother out and tell me if I want to?" he asks. Sam lets out a chuckle.

"Remember that time you wanted to see the stars better, so you climbed up on the roof?" Sam recounts.

And Kirk does. Mom had been home for a few weeks, longer than normal, and Kirk had been pestering her about space -- what she did, where she'd gone, who she'd met. Her stories sparked something in his imagination, back when he didn't resent his parents, space, and the whole damn Federation, and one clear Midwestern summer night, he had the uncontrollable desire to get close to the stars. To where she lived.

Because she didn't live on Earth, in Iowa, with him. She lived out there, where Dad died, and Kirk just wanted to be there, too. And so he climbed out of his bedroom window, crawled to the top of the house, and laid back, eyes wide, taking in the perfect sparkling canopy.

Mom had been angry, yes, but smiled as she closed the door to his room later that night.

"God, Jimmy," Sam breathes, bringing Kirk back to the present. "I haven't seen you since you joined up." His face softens. "You look just like Dad in that outfit."

Still wearing the uniform Bones put him in on the _Enterprise_ three days ago, Sam's comment catches him by surprise. Sure, Pike said he looked like his Dad, but Kirk hadn't given that much thought in the last three years. People knew who his father was, said things once and awhile, but Kirk was here to answer Pike's challenge, to take command faster than the projected eight years (and just maybe, to meet girls who didn't get that glazed look in their eyes when he actually tried to have a conversation with them).

Before all this, he would have gotten angry at the comment, maybe make a sarcastic comment, deflect his brother's odd praise.

Now, he smiles. Hell, he _glows_. All he's seen, learned, _felt_ -- it dwarfs the small stirring of deja vu after his first attempt at the _Kobayashi Maru, _that emotion his father must have felt in his last minutes that drove Kirk to find a way to _win_ -- makes him proud to be compared to his father.

But he can't say _that_ to Sam; he has to keep face in front of his brother, after all. So he gives his brother a sloppy salute while rolling his eyes.

"Did you really jump out of a shuttle? Into _space_?"

Kirk laughs. "Yeah. But I was ordered to."

"Oh, I'm sure you had nothing to do with that _at all_. Was just minding your own business when the captain thought up that scheme, huh?"

"Maybe," Kirk shrugs.

"And you were just following orders when you took over a starship?"

"More or less."

Sam nods, taking this in. The brothers sit silent, half a galaxy away from each other, never feeling more apart yet closer than they have in years. Kirk falls back to his pillow, the pad projecting his brother's image held at arm's length above him, starts toeing off his knee-high boots covered in muck and dust and God knows what else, letting them fall to the floor with two loud clunks.

"You look like shit, Jim."

He doesn't miss the use of Jim, of how Sam's tone's changed. Gone is the jovial banter of an older brother teasing the younger. Something's changed in their relationship and he's too tired to pinpoint the moment he grew up. Really grew up. Not passed 21 and was able to drink legally, but felt something inside shift.

"We should get together sometime," he says. "Grab a beer. You've never been out drinking until you have with me."

"Aurelan would love that."

Kirk snorts. "Don't tell her."

"Maybe," Sam speculates. "I'm proud of you, Jim. Who'd have thought, Jim Kirk from Iowa saved the world." He laughs, a soft, satisfied sound of amusement at the idea. The reality. "Don't be a stranger."

"You, neither."

Sam waves, and the screen reverts to the home screen. Kirk holds it there for a moment longer, thinking about that beer they'll share, when a thought occurs to him. Glancing at the time, he figures he can stay up a bit longer and still get eight hours of sleep before Bones will be knocking to take him back to Medical. Knowing the doctor, he'll scan something and figure out exactly how long he rested -- Kirk's too tired to deal with another lecture.

_Just a little longer_, he thinks.

"Computer," he says. His voice is weak, strained from all the stranglings and near-deaths, and he clears his throat before continuing. "What is the location of Commander Winona Kirk?"

It whirls to life, searching databases and mission reports as the Californian sun sinks lower on the horizon.


End file.
